Dark-eyed Princess

by Mark Battelle

she wore her emotions
on her sleeve
and what beautiful
sleeves they were
crumbling beauty up to
her knees in sand
"is there no other place
than this?"
no my sweet, this is the
deepest part of the flower
the Pentecostals say:
purple is gods color,
but when they spoke
to angles, it was
Arabic, wasn't it?
the Spanish rooftops
were red like the
blood of saints
and the pigeon coups
full of yesterdays
messengers
and tomorrows
dinner
above the Moroccan pharmacies:
the green Arabic moon
stares down, green
with envy of the
Berber men
possessing
the keys
to the dark
eyed women
oh to be a sultan
in an andalucian saddle
led by your grooms
along side a gipsi queen
paint my story on her
hands gipsi mother
parade my princess and
sell her kisses to peasants
she will bow to her king
forever, her smile unfading
as this city crumbles anew